


Aching Everywhere

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn’t take Sam a week to kill Steve Wandell. So what did he do in the interim?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aching Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> for the salt-burn-porn prompt of _I want to tear you apart_

It turns out Sam was awake for less of it than he realized.

Memory returns slowly, like molasses in November, and at first he doesn't even realize that's what it is. At first it's nothing but little flashes when he closes his eyes, smooth pale skin beneath his hands, his lips. Slim body, definitely female, dips and curves in all the right places and, unexpectedly, hard muscle underneath. His mouth drags along her abdomen, leaving wet trails that gleam on anonymous satin skin and she breathes in sharp, the writhe and flutter of her stomach almost like a dance, satisfying beneath his lips.

It isn't Jess, but it could be.

Next time he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and thinks maybe he's wrong, but the breasts the tresses rest on are too high and firm and small. She's riding him; he's dreaming of someone moving above him in the dark, fucking him into the mattress, a small, compact girl—long hair. It's still not Jess. Her low chuckle is familiar, and it catches at the edge of his consciousness, sharpening until recognition is near.

He can almost see her face when he wakes up, and it fades as surely as it was there.

*

Her hair tangles in his fingers and he pulls, watching her head yank back until her chin's pointing at the ceiling and the long line of her neck is totally exposed, skin stretched tight over sinew and muscle. She swallows hard and he watches the bob of her throat. He bites down hard at the base of her neck, then lower, where the bone catches between his teeth and he bites hard enough to bruise.

He wants to eat her alive. Really _eat_ her. He skin is clean, bland but delicious and he knows it's the skin of an apple: nice in its own right, but with so many more flavors lurking beneath.

*

His cell phone rings and rings and rings and rings and rings.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Jo asks, breathless, a little annoyed. The flush high on her cheeks could be sex or irritation or both, but the minutiae matters little as long as it's Sam who put it there.

"No," he says. "It's only Dean," he says. He doesn't even silence the noise until Jo's muscles tighten around him and she throws her head back into the pillow. His eyes fix on the hickeys dotting her skin, already fading, and he barely hears her coming over the sound of his phone ringing.

*

Jo's fingers clasp around his hand, her father's knife, closed, pressing into his palm. Her mouth opens on words she can't say but her eyes have a pleading she's too lust-drunk to hide; she's naked in every sense of the word. A cracked whisper escapes her lips but without any syllables attached.

Inside him, Meg is laughing. Sam wants the gleam of steel on sweat-slick skin too much to care.

*

When the flashes start getting longer, when they invade his sleep, when he realizes they're memories of that lost week, Sam stops sleeping like he did after Jess died. Or, more accurately: he tries, jiggling his leg restlessly in the passenger seat of the Impala with his hands wrapped around the lukewarm cup of Gas N Sip coffee he keeps forgetting to drink.

These aren't nightmares he's having, not dreams, not even visions. You can't stop your memory from returning no matter how much you want to, and you sure as hell can't control what sets it off.

Case in point.

Strung-out on nothing but exhaustion, Sam snaps at Dean,

Dean says, "Blow me," 

and Sam blinks, tripping face-first into another memory.

He's pressing down on Jo's shoulder and she's sinking, falling till her knees hit the ground but she doesn't break eye contact, not for a second, tipping her face up as she goes. There's no demon in those eyes, just the thick fan of her eyelashes framed up against the stark pale skin of her face, the near-invisible blonde of her eyebrows. It's the only darkness on her face save for her pupils, dilated and open like she might compel him to tip forward and drown.

It takes everything Meg has to keep from surging up against the glassy surface of Sam's corneas, but she manages. There's a surprise down the road, and she can't give Jo a sneak peek now.

*

Jo's ass is pinkish-raw from a round of open-palm spanking and Sam's hand is practically numb. It doesn't stop him from cupping his fingers beneath the swell of her ass and hoisting. She gasps with pain but doesn't protest, isn't upset, if the way her legs immediately hitch up around his hips is any indication.

She's braced up against the wall but his dick is trapped between their bodies, swollen with blood, skin of it stretched so tight he feels like he'll split along the seam any moment. He maneuvers it free and positions it at Jo's opening, pretending like he's going to breach her slow and then forcing into her with one long, seamless press that has her choking on a moan and her muscles contracting around him. He bottoms out less than a second after he begins; she's just as tiny on the inside as she is on the outside, slick and tight and blissful relief. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and one palm rests against the back of his head, forcing his face closer to her.

When she kisses him, her teeth sink into his lower lip until it bleeds and she keeps kissing him as if she hasn't noticed. There's something significant about that, the blood—demon blood—but Meg hides it carefully. She thinks about slicing open his arm and letting Jo drink from it, and it's amusing to her, and Sam doesn't understand why.

They each have more bruises than they started with and it's still not enough and there's nothing for it. He braces his forearms against the wall on either side of her head, driving into her over and over, imagining that if he fucks in hard enough, deep enough, he can split her open. Tear her apart. Her legs lock tighter around his hips, urging him on like she can sense the darkness inside him and wants to be destroyed.

*

_When I come back_ , he says, _pretend you haven't seen me in months._

She props herself up on her elbow and looks down at him. "Why?"

"We're going to play a little scene. We're going to pretend you like Dean best." Her silence is telling. It would hurt if Meg allowed him to care. "We haven't seen each other since you found out about your dad, and I tracked you down, and I want you but you don't want me…" he trails off.

He can see the trepidation in her eyes, and he can see it slip behind the front of bravery she forces over it.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," she says, the silly fool, mistrusting child; it's the afterglow talking, or maybe the bravado. "Do I get a word?"

"Any word you want," he promises.

She chooses one. He doesn't know what it is; forgotten before she even finishes saying it.

*

"Maybe you should leave."

There's real fear beneath what she's pretending. The game's already ending for her—that was fast. Maybe she's smarter than he gave her credit for. Idly he wonders if she's wearing panties. 

It's too bad, really, that he has work to do. But Dean will be here soon, and there's no time for distractions, so he shoves her hand away.

"Okay."

*

A needle skids against vinyl. _Before you slip into unconsciousness—_


End file.
